Pack Mentality
by Loquitur
Summary: Fed up with Arya's wildness, the Lady of Winterfell approaches a well-known beast for advice on how to handle her. Little does she know that a dog is just a wolf in denial... Post ADWD; SanSan. Slow burner. Rating may go up in the future. [On Hiatus while working on SMBH]
1. To Lead a Pack

Prologue 

"It's rude not to look at someone when they're trying to speak to you."

"Your feathers are turning black, little bird."

Her brow furrowed. "Beg your pardon?"

"You couldn't bear to look at me not too long ago; that makes you—" He punctuated each word with a draw of the whetstone down his longsword. "—the pot calling the kettle black."

"That's— well I—"

"So the perfect little lady-bird admits to being rude at last?"

"Lady-what? Oh, never mind!" She scoffed in frustration. "I didn't come here to discuss manners and propriety with you, _Ser_."

The Hound's gnarled smirk dissolved into a scowl. "You're not a ser, I know," She interrupted before he could start on another surly rant about the depravity of knights. "I need your … counsel on how to deal with Arya."

His laughter came out in short barks. "A wolf taking advice from a mangy dog. What has the world come to?"

Sansa had half a mind to kick him in his bad leg, but a proper lady must mind her courtesies. She put on her most grave expression while she waited for him to compose himself. "You're the closest to her in temperament. She doesn't listen to me, doesn't respect me, and her wild behaviour is reflecting badly on our house."

He glared at her for a moment before turning away. The Hound sighed. "A bird wouldn't know the first thing about wolves and dogs."

He took the whetstone to the blade once more. The nerve of this man! Did he actually think that he could dismiss her so easily? She pushed down the childish part of her that still quivered at the thought of his displeasure. '_Look at me. Look at me!_' Once upon a time he had demanded her attention; now he ignored her and had the audacity to call _her_ the hypocrite. She mustered up her courage, as she had done with every confrontation they had had before. After all, was he not sworn, as her vassal and shield, to obey her in all things?

"I would if you would show me." Her voice came out more timid than she intended.

The Hound growled in frustration. "Leave the wolf-bitch alone and she'll calm down eventually."

Apparently asking politely wouldn't be enough. He was completely ignoring her now. His body and his eyes were angled away from her. Even the ruined side of his face was hidden from her by the sheet of black hair he swept over it. Her temper cracked in a fork of lightning through her mind. Sansa stomped before him, squared her shoulders, and drew herself to her full height. A withering stare rushed down the length of her nose at him, enhanced by the inclination of her chin. He glared back at her just as fiercely. "I am mistress of Winterfell and your liege. I have ended lives for you. You _will_ obey me or forfeit what is mine. "

The Hound's granite scowl sparked with indignation. They engaged in a silent battle of wills, neither willing to look away first. She arched an eyebrow, daring him to do anything but concede. There was a glimmer of something she couldn't quite pin down dancing in the black depths of his pupils. Uncertainty, perhaps. Regardless, he finally deferred to her with an ugly grin. "I'm your Dog."

The sun felt very warm all of a sudden. Indeed, the heat jumbled the retort in her throat, and he, seeing that she had nothing to say, stood without warning. She took a step back out of reflex. Sandor Clegane gave her a puzzling look then strode past as if nothing happened. "Meet me in the kennels before sunrise tomorrow." His growl barely reached her ears.

She smiled at the receding plane of the Hound's back. A small victory was a victory nonetheless. Sansa traipsed off in the opposite direction, assured in her choice of confidant.

"Regarding dogs, it is always important to remember

who is the leader of the pack, and who are the followers."

* * *

Criticism is appreciated and encouraged. I own nothing.


	2. To Greet a Stranger

Chapter I 

Sandor paced through the hard-packed earth that made up the kennel's floor, a long-haired mastiff following close at his heels. The little bird was late, as expected. More than once, he had considered abandoning this foolish plan and going back to bed for a few hours. Each time, the same image reared its awful, awful head; the little bird playing lady, her hair intricately coiled to frame a face more beautiful than the Maiden herself. Her Tully blue eyes glittering with vexation above her coloring cheeks and chest when he said he was her Dog. He was puzzled at her blushing. It was true, after all. As her sworn shield, part of his duty was to do as she commanded without question (not that he was terribly efficient at it). Her reaction was totally unnecessary, though he was glad to discover that her chest flushed when she —

No. Nothing lay down that path but madness. And teats. Perfect round teats crowned with pink blood, screaming 'lick me Sandor! lick me!'

The mastiff's tail thumped against his calf almost painfully. Good. Maybe a bit of pain would distract him from the growing discomfort in his breeches. He scratched the dog under the thick leather collar belted around its neck. His mind drifted towards the little bird again, but desperately tried to veer away from thoughts of her heaving bosom peeking out behind a window of lace, threatening to tumble out ever so gracefully. Gods damn him. Think of something, anything but her body; her smile, her laugh, her voice —!

_I have ended lives for you._

Her fury came but once in a great while, and was always glorious to behold. That she should turn it upon him was something new entirely. For a moment he thought he had seen Cersei's face superimposed upon Sansa's. The posture and expression his lady had adopted mimicked the Whore Queen at her peak exactly. The Hound scoffed. Only now could he fully appreciate the cringing and placating that usually came from the objects of her wrath.

The mastiff stiffened under his touch. Its ears pricked forward and a soft growl rose in its throat. The dog made to lunge at the kennel door but was yanked backwards by Sandor's firm grip on its collar. Sansa slipped through the small crack she had made and thrust the door shut. Her normal radiance was dulled between the mute colors of morning and the drowsiness she had failed to wipe away. He could see a thick layer of sleep crusted in the corners of her eyes. It was all he could do to keep the amusement from his face.

In his distraction, his grip on the mastiff loosened. The dog took the opportunity to wriggle out of his hand and leap at Sansa. She yelped in surprise as the mastiff placed its paws on her shoulders and slathered her face in kisses. Lucky dog.

"Down. Down, girl. Naerys, down!"

The dog whined and trotted back to his side, her tail resuming its furious tattoo. "Sit and stay." In the meantime, Sansa had conjured a handkerchief out of nowhere and dabbed at the slobber coating her cheeks. Her gaze flickered about, never really focusing on him. It was obvious she was waiting for him to make the first move.

The silence between them stretched and grew pregnant. Now that he had her here, he was unsure what to say. How did one explain something that seemed ingrained into one's consciousness? The old maester at the Keep used to lament about his poor ability with metaphor, and he couldn't just bark what she wanted to know.

The Hound was spared the inconvenience of effort. Sansa approached the mastiff with her hand outstretched towards the dog's head. He snatched her hand away by the wrist. "Stupid little bird," he snapped nastily. "Already making mistakes."

Fuck. That came out wrong.

Pain flashed behind her eyes like a wounded animal. Just as quick, she pushed that pain down behind the courtly palisade she had built in the years before their reunion. Gods, how he hated that wall. It had been irrational to assume that his – the – little bird would be unchanged by the gauntlet of shit she had been put through, but he had not anticipated exactly how much she would change. The countless months she had spent as Littlefinger's bastard molded her into a creature more suited to playing the games of thrones than the chirping bundle of feathered clay she had been. She could read others more easily now, and hid her own emotions with the same lack of effort. She had retained a bit of her purity, but the naïveté and wonder had disappeared. She (though in no way as cynical as he) looked on the world beyond the veil of romantic prose, saw reality, and adapted herself to get what she wanted. The Sansa Stark he had abandoned in Kings Landing would have never been capable of manipulating ten score of knights into dying to reclaim Winterfell, let alone killing of her own volition. It twisted his guts to think that he was in part responsible.

The mask she had put on was absolutely blank, save the current of sleepy vexation thrumming beneath its surface. "Beg your pardon, _ser_."

The emphasis she put on the word was far different from the tone she normally used. Damn her, she knew he hated that and probably knew that he hated giving her a reason to do it. He combed a frustrated hand through the spattering of hair that still grew on his scalp. "Never stick your hand in a strange dog's face unless you want to get bit."

"She seems nice."

"And so did Cersei." Ah, there was that pain again. He fought the urge to tear those wounds open wider with his blunt claws. _Gentle, Dog_, he told himself. "Look."

Sandor placed a hand over hers, marveling at the radical difference in size before he pressed her fingers into a fist. He pushed her arm forward with his other hand and called for the mastiff.

"If you want to be the pack leader you've got to act like it. Your subjects come to you, not the other way around. It's the same with bitches."

By the scowl he was granted, she understood his entendre. Her retort was interrupted when the mastiff bumped her head against Sansa's fist, her thick tail sawing the air like a young boy's sword. "Don't move. Don't look at her. Don't give her any attention until she's calm."

Blood rushed through his ears so loud he swore she could hear it. Why else would she stare at him with that quirk at the corner of her mouth? And surely she knew that his hands had become leaden weights, capable only of feeling the smoothness of her exposed skin and refusing to move. His touch had lingered far beyond what was deemed appropriate. Yet, she hadn't removed herself, hadn't moved at all. But he told her not to move. Fuck.

There was amusement dancing in the depths of her eyes before she slid, ever so slowly, out of his grasp. She patted the mastiff's shaggy head with her back turned to him. He could see that the laces on her dress had been hastily tied. He'd seen more of her exposed skin during one of the Dragon Queen's balls— breathtaking couldn't begin to describe how she had looked in the Pentoshi gown that the Queen had coerced his lady into wearing— yet, he felt his lust for her far more acutely in this moment than the previous. It took him an eternity to try to force down the haze that had been lodged in the back of his skull. He barely managed to get the damned thing to smolder in his ribcage.

"Why?"

Faint rays of dawn were beginning to filter through the windows and highlight the strands of copper in her mane. It had yet to be tamed by her maids and formed a wild cascade over her shoulder. A minute oozed by while his mind raced for something, anything to say that wouldn't muck things up again. Through some miracle, his throat opened up and the words fell out. "You can never really know with dogs, little bird. Even the tamest ones will bite."

"Hm."

Sansa rose to her feet using the mastiff for support. "I must get back before I'm missed."

He snorted. "And how will you explain the dirt on you, stupid bird?"

"I have—" She stretched, and the arch of her back sending a thrum of paralyzing flame through his chest. "—a habit of visiting the Godswood at odd hours."

"I know."

Her lips quirked in that damn mysterious manner again. There was a brief touch on his forearm, and then she was gone as quickly as she arrived. The mastiff returned to his side, her tail beating against his leg as hard as his cock felt. She was as beautiful as ever, but her nature had changed even further than he thought. To be sure, when they had reunited, she had surprised him by looking him straight in the face, but their physical contact had been close to none. Their conversations had been stunted by the company of the Kingslayer and the Maid of Tarth, let alone the hydra of issues that had to be resolved before even reaching Winterfell.

Gods, look at him. The fierce Hound, butcher of Saltpans, confused and enraptured by a girl half his age. He shook his head in disgust. 'Stupid, deluded Dog, to think that you would even have a chance!' Better to just give her what she wanted without expecting anything more. If he thought he knew her back in Kings Landing, he certainly didn't know her now. She could not be further from him were she a Wanderer in the night sky.

"Pack hierarchy is of utmost importance.

One must be constantly vigilant of challenges to one's authority."

* * *

Thank you to the reviewers and followers thus far. Your input and interest is greatly appreciated.


	3. Interlude: Thrill of the Hunt

Damp leaves slipped beneath her feet. The smell of rain overwhelmed nearly all other scents beside the crispness of soggy pine that penetrated the entirety of the forests. Her cousins filtered in behind her, their grey-brown raiment blending with the winter-worn underbrush. She lifted her face to the sky. Water droplets trailed off her nose and into her mouth, clean and sharp. Pure in the way that she was not.

Her cousins were tolerant, but not accepting. She was useful but not welcome. She carried a sense of otherness that could not be masked by obvious kinship. It was her bane and benefit. She was reviled for the weakness that the taint brought, yet her nose was stronger, her hearing keener. Her jaws were not as strong, nor was her stamina as great, but what could strong jaws and lungs do when there was no prey to be found?

Her nose and ears were discerning enough to warrant her continued presence within the pack, even after the former alpha—a bitch large as a horse—left them to their own devices. Her heart swelled with sadness. She had always felt a strange kinship with the female, even if it had not always been returned.

Her ears pricked towards a faint sound in the distance. It was difficult to focus on through the soft pitter-patter of rain, but she surged towards it, nose to the ground, tracking, tracking, tracking, following and (finally!) finding. It was close enough that her cousins would be able to pick up the trail easily. She bayed her excitement and leapt into the hunt, her jaws dripping saliva at the memory of fresh blood. Her cousins were everywhere, scrambling under fallen trees and leaping across dried creek beds. Their eagerness was so intense she could smell it. Musk and terror filled the air (and her heart) with the stink of anticipation.

The prey could not outrun them and decided to make its stand before a cluster of lichen-coated boulders. It was a magnificent hart, his age belied by the magnificent rack of tines sprouting from his head like a bramble bush. His eyes rolled wildly in his skull. Egged on by fear, her cousins tried to dart in, but the hart was old and experienced. His antlers scythed the air and pushed them back. One of her kin was caught in the side, and crawled from the fray with a keening yelp.

She hung back from the drama, watching, analyzing. Ducking back, she took a wide path around to the base of the boulders. A quick scramble brought her to the crest of the formation, down-wind of the hart. She dropped down the few feet behind the beast, sinking her teeth into the hart's flank. Her back-claws dug into his legs, tearing through the coarse coat in search of tendons. The hart trumpeted frantically. He thrashed as though there was a chance that he would live. The rest of the pack dashed in and out of the hart's range, leaving open gashes in their wake.

She dug her teeth further into his flesh. Hot blood spurted against the roof of her mouth. The hart kicked and she released, wary of being injured. Her brethren took the opportunity to finish off the tired old hart. The new alpha latched onto his neck and tore his jugular with a mighty wrench. Fresh blood spewed from the wound as the hart sent a dying moan through his ruined neck. Saliva oozed out the sides of her mouth. She licked her lips and lowered her mouth to the kill, reveling in the taste of fresh meat.


	4. Of Games and Consequences

Chapter II

Sansa woke with a start. She sat up with a groan, the heel of her palm pressed against her forehead. _What a vivid dream_, she thought. She struggled to think of what she could have eaten the night before that would make her mouth taste like copper.

Her contemplation was interrupted by the entrance of her maids— young wildling girls that had been intrigued by stories of "southron ladies" enough to leave the Gift for Winterfell. While they were too brazen for Sansa's usual tastes, their sweet tenacity made up for the deficiency. Their skills as spearwives certainly didn't hurt either.

"Good morrow, m'lady," Red Maris called in her sing-song voice. Sansa thought that Brown Maris would have suited her better, for all the red that could actually be found in the girl's locks. To actually say so would be unkind, however, and she had proven to be an agreeable sort thus far. Her taste left something to be desired; a fault that was countered by Tella's natural eye and aurochs-like demeanor.

Norwyn leaned against the doorframe, her pale eyes taking in everything with an apathetic brand of awareness. Garbed in faded leathers, she was the wildest of the three. Her entrance into Sansa's service was driven by necessity rather than desire. She avoided doing "kneeler's work" if at all possible, preferring, instead, to serve as a body guard when the Hound was off-duty or Sansa needed someone less intimidating.

Maris set about brushing her hair, while Tella picked out ribbons that would match the green velvet dress she had pulled out the night before. Sansa hummed tunelessly for a time before she made the mistake of focusing on the girls' conversation.

" – heard you moanin' from t' other side of the keep!" Tella sneered.

"Maybe you'd understand if you ever bedded a man with any sort of skill," Red Maris retorted.

The girls made no effort at curbing their bawdiness in her presence. Sansa pressed a hand to her forehead. She had just barely managed to convince them to use more polite terms to refer to a man's … manhood.

"Hurry up, y' poxy whores," Norwyn growled amiably. "No'ne wants to hear who y've fucked."

"Funny," Tella weaved silver ribbons into Sansa's braids. "I thought we were havin' a contest."

"Aye, and I was in the lead, last I checked," Red Maris tugged the lacing on her dress tighter.

"Not so, Maris. I bedded Jeor and Edmun both."

"Ah, but I claimed the new stable hand. So we're sharin' the lead."

"Not for long, y' red slut!"

"Ha! I'd like to see what poor bugger'll sacrifice his cock t' you this time!"

"Some folk from White Harbor 're here. Figure I'll get me one o' them merchant husbands—"

"That's enough!" Sansa snapped. "I can't stop you from— from dallying about, but you may not bed another woman's husband! The Gods know I have enough to handle without dealing with a horde of wives screaming about wildlings stealing their husbands."

Maris and Tella fell silent, their faces flushed with shame. The silence spread as they finished tying off Sansa's laces and braids. She nodded curtly at the trio. "You may leave. Take care that you remember what I said."

Norwyn shrugged. "It's just as well, lady. M' numbers aren't good, but I do believe I'm outpacin' th' two by at least seven men."

She exited Sansa's chambers, obviously fighting the urge to grin. Maris and Tella stood transfixed, then burst out of the room, screeching about cheating and the unfairness of it all. Sansa smiled and lifted a twisted silver circlet over her brow before following behind them.

* * *

After a brief visit to the kitchens to break her fast, the Lady of Winterfell opened the Main Hall to hear grievances. The stone chair at the head of the hall had the distinction of numbing the thighs of several generations of Starks, her father included. She had sent a raven to the Dragon Queen with an update on affairs, (as was her wont to do) writing an ode to the Queen's stamina for being able to bear sitting on the Iron Throne for as long as she did. _My dear Sansa_, Daenerys replied, _get yourself some pillows. It would please me to see you in possession of both your buttocks the next time we meet_. And so, Sansa conceded to add several pillows in the traditional Stark colors.

The chair's arms were carved in such a way that it looked like one's hands were resting between the ears of two mighty direwolves. She was pleased to find that the one-gritty heads had been worn smooth by her predecessors. Sansa felt Sandor's presence rather than heard it. "Good morrow, my lord."

"Why you insist on seeing these lick-spittles so early I'll never know," he said around a yawn.

She kept her eyes straight ahead, but allowed a small smile to grace her lips. It seemed the hour was too early for him to take offense to titles. "All will be revealed in due time."

He grunted as if unconvinced.

"All rise for the Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, the Red Wolf and Warden of the North!"

The first petitioner approached; a herdsman, he, complaining about the theft of his livestock by members of the mountain clans. "Have you received permission from Lord Knott to graze on his lands?"

The shepherd flushed. "No, m'lady."

So that was the way of things. "The clansmen will compensate you for every animal taken in excess of their regular fee for grazing rights. You will beg permission from Lord Knott henceforth, or suffer the losses at your own risk."

He gave a clumsy bow and exited. The next petitioner stepped forward. "M'lady," she gave a deep curtsy before launching into a colorful description of a bar fight that happened in her inn a week prior. There were so many tangents and accounts of hearsay, Sansa could hardly keep the story straight in her head. "Enough of your mummery, woman," Sandor growled from her shoulder. "Keep it short."

She bobbed again, nervously this time. "Yes m'lord."

The innkeep's account boiled down to an accusation of several Ryswell men-at-arms causing extensive damage to the inn's common room— though they might have been Glovers— by starting a fight with a group of Karstark men. Sansa considered for a moment before making a decision. "Ser Addam Stone," she called.

The hedge knight in question strode before her and kneeled. "How may I serve you, Lady Stark?"

"Investigate this matter and return to me."

He bowed to her, and escorted the innkeep out of the Great Hall. Ser Addam was one of the knights who had helped her reclaim Winterfell, though he had been given the task of protecting the main forces back from potential enemy reinforcements. He had come across as a vain sort of man so far, though she attributed it thus far to his bastardy. She hoped that assigning him to various tasks interacting with the smallfolk would assuage his damaged ego through perceived importance, while preparing contingency plans in case he became unruly.

The parade of petitioners entered and exited, an endless drone of humanity's various issues. Accusations of theft, an alleged rape, a family squabble over land, merchants from the South and Essos seeking to flatter the Warden of the North with gifts of Arbor gold and silk.

Sansa began to focus her attention elsewhere, namely the pulsing breeze carrying her sworn shield's scent to her nose. She breathed as deeply as she could while still being discreet. He smelled of musk and cool steel and thunderstorms. She kept her face carefully neutral, just like Petyr taught her. He taught her how to read people's thoughts from the minute movements of their face, how to tell a lie from half-truth, how to conceal those movements and lies when it was prudent. He taught her the intricacies of cyvasse with a hand caressing her thigh and she didn't like it, didn't want it, but what if she said no and he sent her back to face—?!

_Breath_.

A suppressed shudder of revulsion was expelled through her exhale; her inhale brought another shot of animal ozone to the core of her lungs. A lie was all the more convincing if the liar believed it; she concentrated on believing the falsehood that it was possible to purge those evil thoughts with Sandor's scent.

A week had passed since their first encounter in the kennels. They had met alone but three times since, as it was difficult to escape their respective duties, but each time Sansa found some (at least partially) legitimate excuse to pull him away.

The first was under the guise of information-gathering in case they received trouble from the Westerlands. He smirked at her audacity. "Little bird, I thought you had learned to lie better than that." His words were teasing, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

"It is plausible, my lord," she sat them in front of the fire in her solar. "We've not yet finalized the treaty between my house and the Lannisters'. But let's not dwell on such things."

He started by further explaining the roles of each member of the pack. "The alpha is top dog. You can have two, male and female. In your wolves, those two are the only ones that get to breed, but we dogs are lustier. A bitch goes into heat and she'll accept almost any mutt," his lips twitched into a grin.

She sniffed dramatically. "Perhaps _we_ _wolves_ are more selective."

He barked his laughter. "_You wolves_ are meaner about it. Any other pack member even thinks about breeding and they get beaten into submission. The urge comes upon one strong enough, though…"

"Pray, continue, ser." The word fell out of her mouth before she could call it back. She prayed to the Old Gods and New that he wouldn't get angry. Thankfully, he put forth his customary "Fuck your sers" and left it at that.

"The alphas get to eat first when any kill is made, even if they aren't the ones to take it down."

"That hardly seems fair."

"Not about fairness." He leaned his elbows on the table. "The strong make the rules through might and the weak abide by them out of fear. Better way to rule than your fancy lords. That weakling cousin of yours wouldn't have lasted a day trying to head a pack of wolves."

"I suppose it is a good thing he was a boy and not a wolf," she fought to keep the grief from her voice.

Sandor obviously detected some part of it, and pushed the subject no further. He hesitated, then placed the ends of his fingers across her knuckles. She made no motion to remove them. Existence seemed to dwindle down to the rasp of his calluses against her softer flesh. It was a small gesture in the grand scope of things, yet so infinitely precious coming from a man such as he. She opened her mouth to speak and he retreated back to his end of the table.

"Some kennelmasters are under the impression that dogs have some complex hierarchy and each of them have some specific place within the pack. Piss on that. The only order that dogs care about is not being the lowest dog and trying to be the highest dog.

"The lowest dog's called the omega. He eats last, he sleeps in the worst spot, he gets flipped on his back by all of the other dogs."

"I thought dogs enjoyed being on their backs."

"If petting's involved, most everyone enjoys being on their back."

She looked at him quizzically.

He cleared his throat. "That's them showing submission to you. Most dogs will do it. The petting is a reward for showing you that you're top dog. Naerys will do it for you, but not all will. Assume that unless you prove yourself, they won't follow you."

"And why not? I'm the Lady of Winterfell," she joked.

"Lady of Winterfell, but not Lady of Wolves," he replied. "That chirping of yours doesn't help."

"Shall I take up howling, then?"

"They might prefer your singing."

Her mouth ran dry. "Do all dogs prefer singing?"

"Some."

He left after that, allowing Sansa to contemplate the sensation of hot coals smoldering in her chest.

Their second meeting, in comparison, was tame. Her obligations had left her knowledge on the subjects they covered dull. So they reviewed what had been discussed while he escorted her to the Godswood to pray.

Their third meeting had been one of reward versus punishment, and she had taken to the tenets of the lesson very well. She had snuck out to the battlements during Sandor's watch at the hour of the owl, cowled in an old cloak the color of midnight. Several torches burned brightly, but Sansa was unable to see any other men. "I thought there were more men stationed on the walls at night."

"There are. I scared them into their beds," he grinned nastily.

"More likely you sent them away. I thank you for your discretion, ser."

"Fuck—"

"Your sers," she finished. "Shall we continue?"

Sandor explained that this lesson would be different from the others. "Things with dogs aren't always obvious. You have to watch for certain signs. If you raise a hand to a dog and he flinches, you can guess someone's beaten him."

His solution to properly demonstrating the concept was a game. The rules were simple: they would take turns picking an action that they wanted the other to do and try to coax the other into doing it through punishments and praise. "That doesn't sound terribly difficult."

"Harder than you think, little bird," he snorted.

Sandor turned his back on her and leaned against the battlements with his arms crossed, staring into the distance. No hints, no suggestions, nothing. Her mind raced, then came upon a wicked idea.

"Bad dog."

He turned to look at her.

"Good dog!"

He bared his teeth. "So is that the way of things?"

She grinned, but said nothing besides "Good dog."

He turned away from her.

"Bad dog!"

Instantly, Sandor turned his entire body to face her, leaning with his back against the battlements and his arms crossed before his chest. "Good dog."

He raised his one remaining eyebrow. She said nothing. He tilted his head, shifted his weight from one leg to the other, and still she said nothing. Finally, he uncrossed his arms and Sansa exclaimed "Good dog!"

They swapped turns after that, endeavoring to make the other do increasingly ridiculous things. Sandor couldn't help but laugh when he managed to steer her into standing on one foot and touching a finger to the tip of her nose. "You won't be laughing when you find out what I'm going to make you do next," she huffed good-naturedly.

"Lucky for you that you caught on faster than…" his voice trailed off.

"Who—?"

He held up a hand for silence while gently pushing her into an alcove on the battlements. By the light of day, he was not as free with her person, but the long, perilous days they had spent on the road had conditioned them both. Mere months in Winterfell had not dulled his sense of urgency in protecting her from harm, just as she still possessed the conditioning that let the warriors handle her in whatever way was necessary to keep her away from danger.

He turned his back to her, allowing his shadow, as thrown by the torch nearby, to shield her with darkness. Sansa pressed closer to him to further hide her silhouette within his. Heavy, yet muffled, footfalls signaled the arrival of another person; male if she were to hazard a guess. Her heart pounded, whether from her proximity to the Hound or the fear of being discovered, she did not know. "What do you want?" She could feel the gravel of his voice vibrating against her sternum.

"Hour of the wolf, ser. I've come to relieve you."

"So do it! Get on to the northern side before I thrash you within an inch of your miserable life," he snarled.

The guard's footsteps quickly faded, though her heartbeat did not. Sandor waited until the man was out of sight, then stepped forward to let her out of the alcove. "Bugger his sers," he muttered under his breath. "You'd best keep your hood up, little bird."

She was able to successfully sneak back to her rooms, but the pounding of her heart kept her from sleep for some time.

* * *

"All rise for the Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, the Red Wolf and Warden of the North!"

Grievances closed for the day after the fourth charge regarding rowdy men-at-arms. Sansa frowned, thinking of what might be causing the sudden epidemic. Now was not the time. She stood from the stone chair and stretched. "The day is still too early for treating. Will you accompany me to the Godswood, my lord?"

They walked out of the Hall with Sandor taking his place just behind her left shoulder. Sansa extended her arm towards him. He grunted and took it; she granted him an almost imperceptible smile. Her heart thrummed with anticipation.

* * *

"Consequences, whether good or bad, must be administered quickly among the members of the pack for maximum efficacy. To lose out on an opportunity is to chip away at one's control."

* * *

A special thank you to the reviewer, Kat, for the words of encouragement.


	5. To Know a Pack Member

Chapter III

The godswood towering above and around them was a rare place of auspicious tranquility. It had withstood the brutality of Theon Turncloak's sack of Winterfell,and later, the desperate destruction of the Bastard of Bolton. The grand oaks that stood sentinel among the weirwoods displayed charred bark and sap-crusted scars proudly; their heavy branches stretched towards the sky with triumphant, green leaves, as if to flaunt their defiance towards those who sought to tear them down.

The weirwoods themselves shed blood-red leaves to rest above the soft carpet of grass that rolled amongst the roots. In Bran's honor, Sansa and Arya had several more faces carved within the wood, though none rivaled the majesty of the heart tree. They were somehow less somber, their tears not as moving, though no less sincere.

Sandor blinked away the momentary blindness that came from stepping in to the afternoon sun after being indoors so long. He couldn't begin to fathom the connection between the northmen and their oozing-faced trees, but he appreciated the thought-encouraging quietude they gave.

His own thoughts were focused on the highborn lady at his side, her arm perched upon his mail-covered forearm. She exuded the gentility of her upbringing in both the evenness of her stride and the amount of space left between her body and his. She had taken to touching him often the past week, always just within the bounds of civility. He was stupid enough to hope— to dream!— that she was conditioning him to her touch. At least, that's what he tried to tell himself. He played that moment when he had shielded her from discovery over and over in his head, savoring the feeling of her feather-light heartbeat against his back despite his better judgement screaming to do otherwise. Propriety be damned. He would take what he could get, regardless of how hard it would bite him in the ass later.

Though it was impossible through the layers of mail and quilted padding, Sandor imagined the heat of her delicate fingers radiating against his skin. She guided them to the heart tree; its tears made lazy trickles along the solemn wrinkles in its face. Sansa arranged her skirts beneath her and sat on the stone bench before the weirwood. She lowered her head and closed her eyes, her lips moving in a silent prayer. He pulled his sight away from her to observe the godswood. Paranoia was a trait he indulged in often, especially while guarding his lady.

He surveyed their surroundings, scouting for potential ambush points. Woody areas were generally a nightmare for sworn shields, being filled with nooks and crannies for a would-be attacker to hide in or climb upon. The godswood, thankfully, was cultivated; there were large gaps in between the giant trees that allowed greater amounts of sunlight to filter through the foliage. They provided both a feeling of breathing room and slightly fewer spaces for a cat's-paw to steal away into. The softness of the grass was less than ideal as far as its sound-dampening properties went, but luckily the fallen leaves would break the silence of anyone trying to tread carefully.

"What do you think?" Sansa voice broke through his reverie.

"About what?"

"This sudden surge in unruly bannermen."

"Probably nothing. More like than not, some fools happened to get too drunk around the same time. Even if it's not, it's too early to tell. No sense in worrying about it."

Her brow furrowed for a moment. "You're probably right…"

He stiffened at the tone in her voice. "You think something's wrong?"

She shook her head. "Just a feeling." Sansa smiled at him weakly. "Do you ever get tired of standing?"

"Sworn shields aren't allowed to 'get tired,' little bird," he growled.

She flushed and gave him a queer look before clearing her throat. "So what shall we discuss today, my lord?"

He shrugged. "Whatever you wish."

"You told me that you can never tell when a dog will bite."

"Aye."

"Yet we still trust them to guard us and hunt with us and sleep in our homes."

"Littlefucker taught you to read men, but there's still the chance of some hedge knight going mad and trying to kill you. It's the same thing. You just need to know what to look for."

"Pray, what should I look for, ser?" Her eyes gleamed maliciously.

He opened his mouth to snarl back, but she cut him off with a sudden "No."

"No?!"

"Bad dog." The corners of her mouth curled into a wicked smile that thrust his heart into a furious tattoo.

He bared his teeth, and allowed her to scold him into sitting on the grass next to the bench—next to her feet. She graced him with one of her blatantly fake smiles. "Good dog. I apologize for interrupting."

She was obviously anything but contrite. He was inclined to push the issue, but his rational nature knew better than to prod her after bringing up Littlefinger so casually.

* * *

The story of what had happened to her after he had fled the Blackwater had trickled in bit by bit, but, even today, he still didn't have the full account. Early in their flight from the Vale, Sansa confided in the three of them— the Maid of Tarth, the Kingslayer and himself— of the true events surrounding her escape from Kings Landing. She explained the account of Ser Dontos' death, despite Sandor's derisive sneers, and how Baelish whisked her away. When Brienne asked, Sansa expressed no interest in taking measures to smother the tales of her transforming into a winged wolf. "I have no skill with arms and my enemies and allies both will see me as a young girl that they can manipulate," she said. "Better that I enhance my reputation with fierceness, false or not."

He snorted and asked if Baelish had also taught her how to transform into a liar. Her reply didn't sting him as much as the indifference that set into her face. "No, ser. I taught myself."

Jaime's glare from across the campfire killed any retort he might have growled out, had he not been stunned into silence.

Four days passed, and four days he went without her sparing him as much as a sideways glance. Four miserable days of enduring the cold of the growing winter and her icy disdain. He took the middle watch from a weary Kingslayer and set to brooding in the chill air. He bit back a sardonic laugh. The frustration of having her ignore him day after day was eating him alive, and yet, there he was, guarding her and the two others sworn to her from harm. His chest blazed with jealousy just thinking about all the little glances and chirps she granted Jaime One-Paw and his wench and didn't give to him. Didn't she know?! Didn't she understand all that he had forsaken just for the faint chance to make amends? He had told her of the peace that he found at the Quiet Isle, gentling his anger with the hymns of mother's mercy and rhythmic pitch of grave dirt. Yet, he brought back the Hound and all of the self-loathing and rage that followed Him for her sake and her sake alone. And then to just pitch him aside like some mange-ridden cur—!

He was choking on his fury when she took a seat beside him. The fury whistled in his ears, demanding that he snap at her in retaliation for the pain she caused. But he couldn't. He had told her he would keep her safe. He thought of the calm rolling of the tide at the Quiet Isle while resisting the urge to tear into her. "You should be sleeping," he bit out between clenched teeth.

"I thought of you after you left."

Her tongue darted out to lick her lips nervously.

"I often wondered what you would say about certain things, certain people. If only you had been there to tell me what the Tyrells really were. I should have known.

"They were all liars there and every one better than me." The echo of his words came as little more than a whisper.

Her face was only half illuminated by moonlight. That half held a mirthless smile and an eye shimmering with unshed tears. She turned, hiding that pale cheek behind a curtain of reddish-brown hair.

"Look at me."

She sniffed. He pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger and coaxed her face towards him. Tears streaked unbidden down the side of her face. His own face was, no doubt, thrown in grotesque relief; the gnarled wreckage of his burned side would be the only thing shown in the moon's harsh white glow. She stared at him dead in the eye and raised a hand to his upraised wrist, her thumb pressing against his pulse.

"Little bird…"

"I didn't want to. I didn't want to, but he made me. He told me he would send me back to Cersei if I didn't and I— I—!"

Her fingers dug into his arm like talons. She fought to keep her sobs down, ever vigilant against her other protectors' waking. Sandor grasped her darkened cheek with his other hand, her salted tears rubbing against his palm hot and sticky. "What did he do?! Tell me what that whoreson did to you!"

"I didn't— I never wanted to—"

She fell against his chest weeping softly. He hesitated a moment before wrapping his arms around her awkwardly. His mind reeled. How had they gone from the void to this closeness in such a short amount of time?

Her sobs eventually abated, though tremors still ran through her body at random intervals. Dim memories of his childhood weeping crawled into the forefront of his mind; heat, affection, a woman's fleshy hug, a soft voice promising the world.

"Shh, little bird. You're safe now. No one will ever hurt you again or I'll kill them."

She went rigid in his embrace. "Do you swear it?"

He flinched at the unexpected question. Sansa pushed away from his chest and looked him in the face once again, her eyes seeming to glow in the night like a wolf's, proud and defiant. She curled her fists into his tunic. "Do you swear it?"

"I swear, little bird," the words fell out of his lips. "I'll protect you with my life."

Her grip loosened and she exhaled heavily. They sat like that for some time, neither knowing a good way to disentangle themselves without offending the other. A rustling close to the campfire had both their heads snapping towards the source of the sound. Jaime had turned over rather noisily in his sleep. Against all his baser instincts, Sandor let his hold loosen around her. She flushed and smiled up at him sheepishly. "Good night, my lord."

She extricated herself from his arms. He watched her tiptoe back to her bedroll in shock, the full implications of what had happened not reaching him until Brienne relieved him for final watch.

He crawled into his bedroll numbly and stared at the tapestry of stars above. The thought occurred to him that he had essentially promised to be his— the— little bird's sworn shield. There was usually more pomp and circumstance associated with such an assignment, but given the situation and his contempt for such affairs, the point was moot. She had not pushed him away.

He was almost willing to believe that it had all been a dream. She said nothing to him about it afterwards, but the little smiles she shot him from across the fire told him otherwise.

* * *

"… all right?"

Sandor blinked. "What?"

Sansa frowned. "I said 'are you feeling all right?' You've been quiet for a long time now."

"It's nothing." He rubbed the heel of his palm against his forehead.

"You already know the basics even if you're not aware of it. The difficulty comes with the parts coming together. Say a bitch comes up to you, she's panting and her tail is wagging. What would you think?"

"If her tail is wagging, I would say she is friendly."

"Aye, and then you'd get your hand snapped off. If her ears are back, she's liable to bite. Sometimes a dog will wag its tail if it's nervous.

"That's why a dog will never lie to you. A man's face will say one thing while his mouth says another. A dog talks with his body. He keeps it simple: ears, mouth and tail. Ears are back, he's pissed; forward, he's alert or happy; down, and he's submissive or fearful. Panting can be a sign of nerves or joy; teeth show aggression. A wagging tail is nerves or joy, again; down is tension; tucked is submission. Wolves are close enough that it doesn't make much difference."

"If only men were like dogs," she smiled wryly. "At least I would get prior notice before anyone tried to attack Winterfell."

"Not all dogs are _courteous_ enough to give you fair warning, little bird. My grandfather used to tell of a shaggy beast from Yi Ti that looked more bear than dog. One of them could pull a man off his horse and rip out his throat in the blink of an eye. There was one with a mummer's show when my grandfather was a boy. One of the mummers was brushing the dog when the comb hit a snarl. The bugger didn't make a sound before or after he bit through the mummer's arm."

Sansa wrinkled her nose. "What did they do with him?"

"Probably put him down. That's what happens to dogs that bite."

"And would you bite if someone tried to brush you, my lord?" she teased.

"You tell me."

She stood and brushed the wrinkles from her skirts. "I'm afraid I will have to watch you closer to judge properly.

"It's probably past time we returned. It wouldn't be very courteous to make the envoys from Norvos wait too terribly long, would it?" She extended a hand to him.

A shiver ran up his spine, bringing with it the sudden, foolish notion to kiss her knuckles. He brushed it aside and pushed off the loamy ground beneath him.

* * *

"To know how to properly read and interpret a pack member's body language is to know what it is to truly be part of the pack."

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Thank you to my reviewers, Winterwasp and Bloodsired, for your kind words.  
I apologize for not updating sooner due to exams.


	6. Interlude: Dead Heat

Thick ropes of saliva dripped from her jowls. She couldn't remember the last time she had eaten; luckily, she had caught the scent of some kind of prey, and didn't hesitate to track it down. A scrawny rabbit sat before her, his noise twitching warily. Her innards spasmed from her ravenous hunger. This rabbit wouldn't serve as more than a few sad mouthfuls. Regardless, her jaws refused to stop salivating at the right of cracking open its bones to suck out the marrow.

The rabbit's ears went rigid. Its noise worked furiously trying to justify its sudden, irrational fear. Her muscles tensed in anticipation.

The leaves gave her away in the end. She had shifted her right leg for better traction, and disturbed a patch of fallen leaves. The rabbit darted away, just as her fangs snapped on the space it had previously occupied. Her stomach gurgled in disappointment as she hunkered back to rejoin her cousins.

Numerous ruffs and hackles rose upon her return. The air was rank with the scent of tension. She could feel the guard hairs on the back of her neck rising in response. She licked her nose and inhaled again, quick and deep. Musk and blood swirled around the powerful olfactory glands in her skull.

One of her cousins was in heat. She marveled at how she was usable to notice it before. A haze settled over her. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. One of her cousins brushed against her shoulder, and she didn't bother to bear her teeth at him.

To her left the alpha was occupied with chastising one of the younger males. Before her, lounging with a group of the pack's older females, was the bitch in heat. She watched, mesmerized, as the bitch flipped onto her stomach and lifted her haunches.

She approached slowly. The bitch flagged her tail to the side. She dipped her nose into the bitch's engorged vulva and smelled the heady scent of ovulation. Her breath came out in a moist pant as she leapt upwards and placed her feet on the bitch's shoulders. Her hips began to surge forward, but she was stopped by a vicious growl.

She was thrown off the bitch by a clamp of sharp jaws on her neck. She tumbled to the side, rolled onto her feet and raised her hackles. The alpha stood snarling before her, with his ruff standing on end. His gums flashed pink around the yellowed lengths of his serrated fangs.

He leapt upon her again, ripping into the loose skin around her neck. She squealed in fright and fell onto her back. A torrent of urine gushed out of her bladder. The alpha snapped at her face, then stepped away from her to mount the bitch. With her punishment over, she pushed herself onto her feet. She slinked away to the edge of the clearing to lick her wounds in peace.


End file.
